Free Death of a Nobody by J. M. Gregson Page B

casualties.’ This time Lewis gave a tiny, mirthless smile in acknowledgement of the jargon.
    ‘But that was due to little Charlie Pegg: he was only eighteen then. One of the bloody guerrillas jumped out from behind a boulder, not more than fifteen yards away. He was slightly behind me, and I never saw him. But Charlie did.’ Lewis, experiencing again the dust and the fear of that desperate moment half a lifetime behind him, could not keep his voice steady.
    Lambert was for a moment caught up in the distant drama. ‘Did Charlie shoot the man?’
    ‘No.’ Lewis grinned at the recognition. ‘He said he’d have missed, if he’d tried. He shouted and threw himself on top of me, knocking me flat as the man fired his rifle. Our other two men took a pot shot at the guerrilla, but he was away like a monkey over the rocks. Fortunately, he was on his own — we thought at first we’d walked into an ambush.’
    ‘And neither of you was hit?’
    ‘No. But I would have been, for sure. The bullet took a chip out of the rock I’d had my hand on. I kept the bit of stone. If it hadn’t been for Charlie Pegg…’
    George Lewis shrugged expressively, a small, balding man in a safe, warm room and a safe, cosy job, recalling a moment of drama which seemed at that moment to have happened to a wholly different man in a wholly different world. ‘Charlie could easily have been killed himself, of course, in the act of saving me. I’ve thought about it a lot, over the years.’
    Lambert said, ‘Did he get an award?’ It seemed the line which was needed from him to complete the tale satisfactorily.
    ‘Did he buggery! I reported it all, but all they did was query the wisdom of the military action I had taken. Then they said there was no senior rank to witness Charlie’s act of gallantry, so it couldn’t be officially rewarded. If you ask me, the four of us should never have been ordered to go off at random like that, and the CO didn’t want it officially examined.’
    ‘You could be right at that,’ said Lambert. Lewis accepted the words as the assurance of one old sweat to another, and seemed content that it should conclude his account of times past and favours owed. Lambert produced the little red book and succeeded in confirming several of the initials there as belonging to owners of apartments in Old Mead Park. He did not show Lewis the enigmatic entries alongside the initials, lest his faith in his dead friend’s integrity should be tarnished.
    Instead, he said, ‘What do you know about James Berridge, who has the penthouse apartment, George?’
    Lewis looked automatically at the door, checking that they were shut in where none could hear them. ‘I know he’s a villain. Though I wouldn’t say so to anyone but you. Charlie let that slip: he never said much, but I think he wanted me to be on my guard against him.’
    Lambert nodded, taking a swift decision to venture a little information in the hope of greater returns. ‘He might be involved in Charlie’s death, George. But not directly: he certainly didn’t kill him himself. Keep your eyes open for us. But please don’t do any more than just that. Leave the risk-taking to us. We’re paid for it.’
    George Lewis nodded, then buttoned the jacket of his uniform and opened the door, dropping back into his professional persona after the confidences of the last half hour. He accompanied the superintendent to his car, assuring him that he would contact him if he saw anything that might be of relevance to the investigation. As Lambert climbed stiffly into the big Vauxhall, Lewis said, ‘Get the man who killed old Charlie, Mr Lambert. And just make sure I don’t get there first.’
    He was a slight figure, almost comic in his bravado. But his vehemence gave him dignity. Lambert retained the image of the short figure standing at attention long after it had disappeared from his rear-view mirror.
    ***
    Back at Oldford CID, the man with whom Charlie Pegg had had his last